


chicken soup and battle scars

by saltsanford



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 12:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12817188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltsanford/pseuds/saltsanford
Summary: once, they had far worse things to fret over.





	chicken soup and battle scars

**Author's Note:**

> this fic came up in conversation with some of my buds today, and it motivated me to slam it up on AO3. i wrote it....geez, OVER A YEAR AGO NOW, for "tuckington forehead touching week" bc why would that not be a thing lmao. [taller](http://archiveofourown.org/users/a_taller_tale/works) was the one who came up with the prompt, and i loved it immediately so here it is, immortalized on AO3!

“I made you chicken soup.”

It’s the first thing Wash has said in two days that causes a bit of the dull, glazed look to leave Tucker’s eyes. He pokes his head out of the mountain of pillows and blankets he’s currently buried beneath and says, “Oh?”

Wash can tell that he was aiming for a polite sort of curiosity, but he can detect the underlying alarm in Tucker’s voice. “I followed your recipe,” he adds quickly. “I measured out all of the spices and everything.”

Tucker makes another one of those politely alarmed noises and weakly pushes himself to a sit. “You remembered the difference between teaspoon and tablespoon, this time?”

Wash freezes before whipping his expression into something neutral. “Of course I did,” he says, while frantically trying to recount if he had indeed dumped five tablespoons of garlic into the soup. “The instructions were very clear.”

He can barely think of Tucker’s neat little box of recipe cards without a lump settling into his throat. Tucker had recently been horrified when, after returning from a week-long trip with Junior and some of his friends, he’d found that Wash has eaten nothing but MREs all week. “We aren’t in the military anymore, dude!” he’d exclaimed, highly distressed, and spent the next five hours meticulously writing out all of Wash’s favorite recipes onto a set of index cards. Wash was under strict instructions to use them whenever Tucker wasn’t around to cook.

Wash shoves his thoughts away from that line of thought, of Tucker  _not being around_ , and sits down gingerly on the edge of the bed. He places the tray carefully across Tucker’s lap, reaching up to readjust the blanket across Tucker’s shoulders. “You’ve barely eaten anything over the past two days.”

“That’s because I feel like shit,” Tucker sniffles, then squints at the tray. “Dude. Did you pick me flowers?”

“You like flowers,” Wash says, then hastily tries to get the tremble in his voice under control. “I picked them in the field behind the house.”

The look on Tucker’s face suggests that Wash didn’t do as good of a job as masking the tremble as he’d hoped. “You’re acting weird. Are you sure  _you’re_  not getting sick, too?”

“I’m fine,” Wash says, then winces. He couldn’t have made that sound more dramatic if he’d tried. “I’m just—worried about you.”

There. He’d said it. Dropping all pretense, he puts the back of his hand to Tucker’s forehead. “You’re burning up, Tucker.”

“That’s because I’m  _sick,_  Wash,” Tucker says, exasperated. “It’s not a big deal.”

Wash nods absently, nudging the bowl of soup towards Tucker. “Try to eat something. Please?”

Tucker sighs, bringing a spoonful of broth up to his lips. “Not bad,” he says thoughtfully. “I mean, it’s not as good as mine, but—I think you got the measurements right this time.”

Wash’s spirits lift for a bit as Tucker makes his way wearily through the bowl of chicken soup, and drinks some water as well. It doesn’t last. One hour later, Tucker vomits the entire contents of his stomach yet again into the small trash can Wash has placed next to the bed. Wash gathers Tucker’s dreads together and holds them back from his face until Tucker stops heaving. “Stop looking at me like that,” Tucker croaks, resting his forehead on the edge of the trashcan and slanting a suspicious look at Wash.

“I’m not,” Wash insists, even as he presses a cold washcloth to the back of Tucker’s neck for the millionth time.

“Dude, go outside or something,” Tucker groans, closing his eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be working today? Go take a walk.”

Wash tugs the trashcan away from him and settles Tucker back comfortably against the pillows. He brushes Tucker’s hair back, cups his face, and leans forward until their foreheads touch. “I’m  _not_ leaving you.”

“Oh my God,” Tucker moans. He bats at Wash’s chest. “Would you  _stop?_  And get away from me, you’re gonna get yourself sick too—”

He cuts his words off with a coughing fit, curling in on himself. Wash spends the next hour sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing Tucker’s back until he drifts off to sleep, then the next hour after that frantically checking to make sure Tucker’s still breathing. He spends  _another_ hour reading everything he can find on Tucker’s symptoms, until his own stomach is twisted into knots. This was bad. Really bad.

With a deep breath, Wash swipes to the contacts section of his datapad and makes a call. “Oh, good, are you home? I need your help…”

* * *

The knock on the door twenty minutes later is music to his ears. Wash crosses the house in record time and yanks it open. “Thank you so much for coming over, I—were you in the middle of something?”

Dr. Grey sweeps into the house and gives Wash’s arm a little pat. “Nothing that couldn’t be interrupted. It’s no trouble, Wash, really!” She adjusts the medical bag on her arm and glances around. “Now, where is he?”

“Upstairs…” Wash glances that way, then lowers her voice. “He’s…I think he’s really sick, Emily.”

“Well, let’s just see what we see before we jump to any conclusions,” she says calmly. The worry and tension by no means leaves him, but Wash feels something in his shoulders ease a bit at her words. Dr. Grey has helped them all through so much. Maybe, just maybe, she could fix this, too.

Wash leads her upstairs, knocking softly on the bedroom door. Tucker’s already sitting up in bed, absently rifling through his datapad, but he drops it on his lap when he sees Dr. Grey. “Uhhh, what–?”

“I understand you’re feeling a little under the weather, Tucker,” Dr. Grey says cheerfully. She sets down her bag and pulls out her medical scanner.

Tucker shoots an exasperated look Wash’s way.  _“Seriously?”_

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Wash says, twisting his hands together nervously. “I thought if we could just get ahead of this thing, then maybe—”

“Get ahead of—Wash, it’s just a  _cold,_ for Christ’s sake!”

“You don’t know what,” Wash says. “You—Emily, he hasn’t kept food down for two days, that can’t be good, can it?”

“It’s not ideal,” she says, still in that same upbeat tone. “Let’s have a look, Tucker.”

Tucker half-heartedly bats the scanner away, but drops his hand when he locks eyes with Wash. “Oh,  _fine._  Do whatever you need to do.”

Wash inches closer and closer as she takes Tucker’s temperature, listens to him cough, and checks his blood pressure until Dr. Grey shoots him an annoyed look over her shoulder. “Washington, please stop hovering.”

“Sorry,” Wash says, stepping back. “I just—”

He gasps so loudly that both Dr. Grey and Tucker look at him in alarm. “My healing unit!” he says. “I can’t believe it took me this long to think of that! We can bring my healing unit out until he gets better, that should help, shouldn’t it?”

“No way,” Tucker protests. “Are you kidding me? I can’t fucking stand that thing, it’s as bright as the goddamn sun and it sounds like freight train—”

“I think you can deal with a  _bright light_  if it helps you get  _better_ —”

“—haven’t used it in five years, probably doesn’t even work—”

“—of course it works, they don’t go  _bad_ —”

“I don’t think the healing unit will be necessary,” Dr. Grey says loudly. They both falter.

“Why?” Wash says. He crosses the room to grip Tucker’s hand, irritation fading immediately. “Why? Is it—is it too late?”

“It’s not too late,” Dr. Grey says. “I just hardly think a Freelancer healing unit is necessary to combat a nasty bout of the stomach flu.”

Tucker hastily turns his snickering into a cough as Wash sputters. “A—what? Stomach flu? That’s it? That’s all this is?”

“Hey, don’t trivialize my illness,” Tucker says. “I feel like total shit over here.”

Wash ignores him. “Are you  _sure?_ ”

“I’m quite sure, Wash.” She gives another sympathetic pat to his arm but this time, Wash can see her fighting to keep the grin off of her face. “There’s a bug going around. Tucker should stay in bed for a few days, and drink plenty of fluids—”

“But he  _can’t_ drink fluids,” Wash says. “He can’t keep anything down—look, I’m not questioning your medical opinion, but I did a lot of reading and what he has sounds an awful lot like stomach cancer—”

He hardly thinks this somber proclamation should start Tucker and Dr. Grey giggling, but that’s exactly what happens. Wash crosses his arms over his chest and glares until Tucker stops laughing and rolls his eyes. “Dude, come  _here_.”

After a bit of resistance, Wash lets Tucker tug him back down onto the bed. “Look, I’m not saying all this concern isn’t hot, but I’m fine.”

“He really is,” Dr. Grey says, already swinging her bag onto her shoulder. “I’ll bring over some antibiotics, but the bug has probably nearly worked its way out of his system by now. Really, Wash, we should be more worried about  _you_  catching this thing.”

With a flutter of her fingers, Dr. Grey flounces out of the room, humming merrily until they hear the door shut behind her.

Wash looks at Tucker. “Okay, before you say anything—”

Tucker interrupts him anyway, pulling Wash’s hand to his lips and planting a kiss right on his palm. “Soooo like, since you’re probably gonna get sick anyway…” he waggles his eyebrows. “I think I might need a more thorough examination, don’t you?  _Doctor_  Washington?”

Wash huffs, but he leans down to kiss Tucker square on the mouth anyway, the relief pulsing through him absurd in its intensity. “I  _suppose_  you just might.”


End file.
